When The Clock Strikes Midnight
by The Secret Life Of A Writer
Summary: Words are the most dangerous of all things, For they can never be taken back.
**.**

From Where You Are

Smothering a yawn behind his hand, Sam glanced into the car's rearview mirror, watching the smooth expanse of empty highway yawning back at him. He'd been driving for a few hours, Dean sleeping soundly in the shotgun seat. Somehow his brother had managed to slip in the past few minutes, his face plastered against the Impala's window, and Sam had to grin. Dean loved the car so much he kissed it even in his sleep. Reaching out, Sam cupped Dean's cheek and gently shifted his brother until he was at a more comfortable angle. Sniffling slightly, Dean didn't wake, practically snuggling into the Impala's upholstery as a soft snore escaped him.

It bothered him that he didn't know why. They were going to _California_ , and Dean was being intentionally and irritatingly vague about…everything. Hell, he didn't even know what the lead was that Dean had found, or where in California they were headed. His brother had simply pulled over a couple hours ago, climbed out of the driver's seat, shunted Sam aside, and curled up for a nap, feet pulled up beneath him. Curiously, Sam let his eyes wander over Dean again. Something was off, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. But Dean never slept in the fetal position. And he never hid job details from Sam. Except for the time Cassie had called, but…even then, he'd known what had been happening.

The car purred fondly as he eased his foot of the gas, turning the Metallic tape down. He wanted to think, but didn't know what about. Just the thought of returning to California had his heart thumping erratically. He knew they would probably be nowhere near Stanford, but still…he couldn't help thinking of her. His friends. His life before Dean had returned to it. His life before he'd seen his brother – and now father – for the first time in years. It had been so simple, so straightforward, so damn _easy_ compared to this.

Dean made a soft sound beside him, and Sam smiled as he watched his brother stir, stretching out and dropping his feet back down as he sat up, his eyes hopelessly muddled. Reaching down, Sam flicked the volume knob, chuckling as Dean jumped at the sudden cacophony of guitars blaring through the car.

"Damn it, Sam!"

He just laughed, watching out of the corner of his eyes as Dean glared some more before shuffling around a couple tapes, sliding a new one in and leaning back, watching the scenery blur past.

"So," Sam began, returning his gaze firmly to the smooth road snaking out before them, "What's this lead you've found?"

"Just something I thought was kinda interesting," Dean rapped out, avoiding his eyes, and Sam's heart sank. That was Dean's _don't ask me anything more because I will become a turtle and hide in my shell_ tone, and he knew it would do no good to pry. Whenever he did Dean would withdraw further, until Sam was left talking to himself. Sometimes Dean would just go to sleep. Whatever it was, he wasn't going to find out until they got there.

Which worried him.

Neither of them was a stranger to keeping secrets, or having secrets kept from them. But Dean never, ever dragged him into things without preparing him for it first. Usually Sam would spend the ride there mulling over what it could be, looking things up in Dad's journal if he needed to, or just sleeping. What were they walking into, that Dean couldn't share it with him?

In the end, it wouldn't really matter. One of them would do something stupid, the other would save him, and they would walk away when it was over, bruised and battered but alive. And together. They always did. And this would be no different.

-:-

It was when the car rumbled gently to a halt that Sam felt Dean's strong hands shaking him awake. "Get up, Sam, we're here." Sam's eyes cracked open blearily in time to see Dean step out of the car, slamming the door shut a little more forcefully than usual. Huh. He crinkled his nose, knuckling the sleep from his eyelids. Dean usually waited until Sam was fully awake before moving away. Little things he thought his brother would never noticed. But Sam noticed everything, even if Dean didn't know it.

When he stepped out, the shock slammed so heavily into his chest that Sam stumbled back against the car, unable to breathe. He knew _exactly_ where they were.

Stanford.

He was gasping for air, his head spinning, one hand clutching the car for support, knuckles whitening fast. Memories were assaulting him, of chasing Jess around the campus when she'd snagged his laptop and started running, of their first kiss on the sun-soaked lawn, the first magical time his eyes had met hers when walking from one class to another and he'd known he was sunk. He didn't know he was crying until a tear rolled down his neck.

Suddenly he remembered Dean, and Sam whirled around, reeling like a drunken bear, struggling to focus his gaze. But there was no one around the car. "Dean," he whimpered, because he was four again, and he'd broken his favorite Army Man and he wanted Dean to make everything better. His brother had held him then, promising him to fix it, and a week later Sam found a new one lying on his pillow. It had taken him years to realize that Dean had skipped lunch for nearly a week, saving up his pocket-money to buy him that. Part of him knew that this was something Dean couldn't fix, but part of him just needed to be the little brother again. Just for a little while.

His eyes picked Dean out among the few students milling around, found him the way he'd been able to ever since he'd opened his eyes for the first time, saw him turning the corner with something slung over his shoulder. Blindly breaking into a run, Sam tore after him, questions and suppressed tears burning his throat. He was too old for this. Crying like a child, needing his brother the way he had when he was a toddler…

He had thought he would catch up to Dean in moments, since he had such a massive height advantage, but his brother could move damn fast when he wanted to. It took Sam a few minutes to realize they were moving rapidly through the dorms, and he ducked into one of the buildings nearly on Dean's tail, but his brother slipped randomly down a hall, and by the time Sam _finally_ caught up to him, Dean was inside a room, the door slightly ajar.

Stomach churning, hoping there wasn't another murder here – which was unlikely, given the conspicuous absence of police or caution tape or anything at all – Sam stepped inside.

It was a perfectly normal dorm room. _Normal._ No blood, no signs of a struggle, no signs of even an occupant. It was a single room, and Sam's brows furrowed with confusion as he kicked the door shut behind him, watching Dean drop what he recognized to be his own duffel bag onto the bed, his back to him still.

For a moment they waited.

"Dean," Sam whispered, hating how he couldn't quite manage to keep his voice steady, "What's happening?"

Dean still wouldn't turn around, but Sam saw his brother's shoulders tense through the jacket. "What should have a long time ago," he said, his voice low.

Huffing out a little laugh, Sam jammed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders slightly. A patented defensive posture of his, he knew, but he couldn't help wanting to scrunch up like a turtle and hide until everything made sense. "What are you saying, dude? Why the hell are we here? Is something –"

"Sam." Dean said it easily, with no bite in his voice, but he'd turned, and something in his eyes killed Sam's voice deep in his chest, like the time he'd shoved ice cubes down Sam's shirt. But there had been a smile in his eyes then, and there was none there now. "Don't argue with me, okay?"

"But, Dean, you have to tell me what you –"

Dean pointed imperiously to the desk chair, and Sam sighed, dropping gracelessly into it. "Okay. What?"

"The scholarship and interview offer still stand," Dean said flatly. "The university will cover everything you need to graduate – textbooks, all that shit – and your professors made a few phone calls and rescheduled your law interview for next week. This is your room. And listen, you go to law school and you make me and Dad proud, you hear me?"

For a moment Sam stared. He wanted to laugh, he could feel it actually rising in his throat, because this was just batshit insane, there was no way Dean was actually leaving him here…

Narrowing his eyes, Sam stood fluidly from the chair. "Christo."

Dean just smiled, a sad, tired smile that Sam had seen on his brother's face too often lately. "Here." He pulled a small vial out of his jacket pocket and tossed it at Sam, who snatched it mid-arc. "Holy water. Any other tests you want to try?"

Sam dropped the vial onto the chair, wincing as it rolled off the smooth surface and onto the floor, coming to a rest by the edge of the desk. Trying to pretend he wasn't feeling downright terrified now. At least if Dean had been possessed he would've known what to do, how to fix it. "Dean, what – we have to look for the thing that killed Mom and Jess, remember? Dude, we've got to find –"

"Not 'we,'" Dean corrected, his face pale. "Just me, kiddo. _You_ are gonna get your ass to law school."

"No, man," Sam said, shaking his head, stepping forward. This was wrong. All wrong. Dean didn't want him gone – did he? Was Dean tired of having a kid brother to drag around? To take care of? Sam still felt guilty about the time in the asylum when he'd shot Dean with rock salt…and if he'd had a real bullet, he would have used it. What kind of sick person _was_ he? Dean jumped in front of knives and bullets for him, he was there everytime Sam needed him, and Sam hadn't even _tried._

Anger was too easy. Love is harder. But when had he forgotten that the effort is always worth it?

"Dean, listen, I want to –"

"Enough, Sam," Dean snapped, and he flinched back. That tone was eerily reminiscent of their father…and Sam knew what was coming. This happened every time Dean channeled Dad. "You are going to stay here and do what you need to, okay? That's an _order_."

"Yeah?" Sam challenged, raising his chin, relishing the height difference between them. "Last time I checked, you weren't in charge."

"Then who the hell is?" Dean demanded, his eyes narrowing to green slits. "Because whenever you call the shots, things go to hell in a handcart, you know that."

"What about when you left me on the side of the road and drove away?"

"Indiana?" A short, harsh laugh. It made the hairs on Sam's arms stand up. Dean was _not_ okay. But he was also not possessed, which meant…

"Dean?"

His brother snarled, shoulders hunching over just a little. Sam knew that posture. It was one Dean adopted when he was seconds from pounding something – or someone – into a jelly. Usually Sam was behind him when he moved this way. Today, for the first time, he was on the receiving end. But if that meant they were going to figure this out, then he would take whatever Dean was about to throw at him.

But there was only one sentence from his brother. Every word dripping with venom that scalded even more than losing Jess and that apocalyptic fight with Dad. "I am doing exactly what you told me to in Indiana. Because I'm starting to see that you meant it."

Sam gaped, a defensive smile plastered over his face, flipping frantically through his mental inventory of conversations with Dean, of what they'd said back in Indiana, but that white-hot, roiling, _dangerous combination_ of frustration and anger had wiped his mind completely clean. He surfaced just in time to notice Dean's hand closing around the doorknob.

"You can't make me stay here," Sam said calmly, rising to follow his brother. "I'm coming with you, Dean, whether you like it or not."

"You are staying," Dean returned, his voice heavy with finality. He turned his head slightly, and Sam swallowed. His brother's eyes weren't soft the way they normally were when they were together. They were flinty pieces of cold, hard jade. "You can't always watch me. I'll get sloppy. I'll get us caught. The minute they fingerprint us, they'll realize who I am, that I'm a felon and that I should be dead. And even you can't break me out of jail, Sam."

He felt four again. Locked in the closet by accident, shut up in the dark. His breathing had been too loud, suffocating him, panicking him as he heard himself gasping for air. Dean had been outside, sparring with the air in the empty parking lot, practicing all sorts of karate and judo and things he shouldn't even have known back then through a shimmering August heat wave. Dad had been gone three days on a hunting trip. No one had heard Sammy's screams for help, screams for Dean, no one had heard him pounding against the walls. It had been half an hour before Dean had realized that his little brother was no longer pretzeled up on the floor, crayons and paper spread out everywhere, and had come and freed him. He vaguely remembered sobbing into Dean's chest for a good ten minutes, before he'd been distracted by marshmallows and chalk and a smooth, empty pavement and the best older brother he could ever have wished for.

He was suddenly desperate to stop Dean from leaving – and maddeningly helpless. He knew Dean well enough to recognize that particular glare. Whenever Dean leveled _that_ at anyone, he meant every single damn word he said. And when he was determined, Dean could do _anything_ , whether it was chasing monsters from under a toddler Sam's bed or doing all the voices while reading a story or leaving his brother behind with a broken heart. Anything.

Dean's voice brought him back to the present. It was soft, warm, _home_ , like the comfort of the Impala and a long drive following several days of bitter sheets and motel rooms. Hope flared in his chest, stupidly, before his brain processed what Dean had actually said. And then promptly shut down.

"Goodbye, Sam."

The gentle click of the door was the only warning Sam had. And then Dean had melted away.

For too long, he just stood there, affixed to the spot, staring blindly at the closed door. Dean _never_ closed doors on him. He always knew when Sam needed him around and would hover within reach. Always mucking around with his guns or knives or food, fiddling with the TV remote, clinking empty bottles together, grating on Sam's frayed nerves with a smirk and a wink, but he was always so solidly _there_ that Sam couldn't remember how to even shift his too-long limbs without a bow-legged stride to follow.

Without warning, the panic closed over his head like water, and Sam stumbled forward against the door, drowning in shock, wrenching it open and finding his feet automatically, pacing rapidly into a run as he headed back for the car. _Please don't be gone, Dean, don't be gone, please, Dean, please, don't be gone…Dean…Please…_

But he'd known that he would be too late. He always was. Too late to save Jess, too late to save Dean, too late to…A familiar hum made him whirl, just in time to see the Impala swerve out of the campus, leaving a few giggling girls in its wake. Gone. Dean was…

A shout from behind made him turn, his eyes blinking furiously, trying to rid themselves of the lingering vertigo. "Sam!"

Years of practice made it all too easy. Sam schooled his features into a warm smile, bright eyes – only one person could have seen past this to the pain beneath, and that person was…No. Not going to think of it now.

"Hey, man," Sam grinned, letting David jog up to him. He was one of the first friends Sam had made after coming here so many years ago, easygoing and gentle. Probably because he came from money – _lots_ of money – he wasn't nearly as competitive as some of the others Sam knew, except at soccer.

"Where have you _been_?" David demanded, punching Sam's shoulder lightly. "Last I heard, you went to find your old man, and then –" He broke off, looking stricken, and Sam winced. Jess had made his excuses to their friends, but after the fire he'd just vanished. And he knew David felt guilty for bringing her up, even indirectly.

"It's okay, dude," Sam assured him, trying not to think of the one person who had ever been able to comfort him this way. "I was just road-tripping with my brother."

"Hey, why didn't you let him stick around?" David slung his arm over Sam's shoulders, one of his few friends tall enough to do so. "We would've loved to meet him. Have you got a photo at least? Is the guy as tall as you? How old is he?"

"What is this, the third degree?" Grinning, genuinely this time, Sam rummaged around in his pocket, fishing out his phone. It was a quick snapshot he had, taken on the road to Chicago, of Dean with his head thrown back against the shotgun seat, singing his heart out to "Heat of the Moment." And in the heat of the moment – Sam smirked at the bad pun – he'd taken the picture, refusing to delete it. Dean just looked so blissfully _happy_ , he couldn't bear to part with it. "Here."

Somehow he managed to stumble through the rest of David's barrage of questions about his brother before pleading exhaustion and escaping to the solitude of his room, collapsing onto the bed. Kneading his hands through his hair, he massaged his scalp until it burned, practically growling with rage.

How dare he. How _fucking_ dare he do something like this? How could he abandon Sam just like this, leave him alone when he was dying for the companionship that Dean always brought with him? He wanted to stand and pace, but it was something that Dean did when he was worried. He wanted to clean out the weapons in his bag, make sure everything was working smoothly, but it was what Dean did when he needed to keep his mind free and his hands busy. He wanted to get a drink, to find strength in silence, but Dean did that. What did Sam do? He _talked_. Those "chick flick" moments that Dean teased him about were how he coped with their lifestyle. But he'd relied on having Dean around, after Jess had been taken. His brother had been the only person in his life able to fill the Jess-shaped hole in his heart – not fully, not completely, the pain was still there, but it was bearable.

With Dean there was no pussyfooting around the fact that she was gone. He'd said it, back when they'd been facing that terrifying possibility of Dean's death. What he wanted and saw was reality – and somehow he was able to handle it all, every miserable thing that came their way. If he thought that Sam needed to talk about losing Jess, he pulled over by the side of the road and demanded an answer. If he thought Sam was being an idiot, he came right out and told him so, flatly, to his face.

And now there was no one to do that for him.

Jess and Dean had been shockingly alike, he realized that now. They didn't mince their words, they were realists – although Jess had been a bit of a dreamer, while Dean could never have been accused of being starry-eyed – and they were determinedly confident of everyone but themselves.

Desperate for something to occupy himself with, something that was so un-Dean that it wouldn't tighten the agonizing twist in his gut any further, Sam hefted his duffel bag up onto the narrow bed, flinging out its contents haphazardly. He was going to fold and refold every piece of clothing he owned.

He'd gone through two shirts and was searching for the pair to the sock in his hand when his hand caught against something that rustled in a very un-clothing-like way. Lifting up the jeans over his fingers, he pulled loose a small piece of what appeared to be a newspaper. Scrawled across it were a few words in Dean's print. _This was never the life I wanted for you._

The paper slipped from between limp fingers and floated gracefully to the ground, settling there like a sigh against a lover's neck.

He was shaking. He could feel it, the bones in his body rattling together as he hunched over in shock, turning the words over and over in his head the way his tongue turned over a piece of candy before it cracked between his teeth. He was waiting for that moment now, that sharp moment of clarity when sweetness exploded in his mouth and the reality of what he was experiencing cushioned him against the doubt and insecurity in his own mind. But this time there was no culmination. There was only emptiness, because Dean was gone, and Dean was never ever coming back.

Once a room just like this had been home for him, and that definition had expanded to include the university, his friends, _Jess._ It was only now he realized what that had done to Dean. He'd shunted his brother aside, discarded and disregarded, left him with their father when he knew full well how shabbily his father had treated them both, caring less for their hopes and dreams and desires than for his own never-ending saga against whatever creature he was up against.

It hadn't even occurred to him that he owed his brother at least one dream. It was such a simple thing. He'd done his best to be gentle when breaking it to Dean that he didn't want to hunt monsters forever – but that didn't mean that he didn't want his brother in his life! He just…a heavy sigh dropped from his lips, falling to crush his chest instead. How could he have explained to Dean that more than anything he was afraid of things becoming the way they had been? That he was terrified that their father would regain the controlling position he'd had in their lives, that he was frightened of his life degenerating into the vicious cycle of heated arguments and hatred-soaked words that they had flung at each other? That he was groping in the dark, searching for a haven where the disappointment in his father's eyes couldn't find him? He couldn't bear being second best. He'd excelled in academics, sports, everything he could possibly find to occupy himself with, but no matter what he did, he could never be the good little soldier Dean was. And he was always, _always_ second best.

His palms kneaded his eyes mercilessly before he froze, sick with himself. He wasn't playing fair. Maybe their father had preferred Dean on hunts, but he could never once remember Dean arguing with their father the way he had. He'd been selfish and arrogant and cruel enough to believe that it was because Dean had always wanted to agree with their old man, even foregoing brotherly loyalty for what he'd seen as slavishness. But he'd rarely been so far off the mark. It was occurring to him that maybe Dean never felt entitled to an argument. Maybe Dean had been too busy taking care of him, the way he had as far back as Sam could remember. Maybe Dean had taken the fall for Sam one time too many.

Whatever it was now, it was nothing but too late. He knew Dean well enough to know that when he wanted to vanish, he was damn near impossible to find. There were too many games of hide-and-seek in his memory in which he'd never found Dean, and when he had, it was because his brother had purposely made a scuffling noise or let a shoe stick out so that Sam could have his moment of glory. But he'd never let Dean have one. Sam had purposely excelled at everything he could, jealous of Dean's near-constant success at hunting, jealous of the way Dean always was in control. When he had any moment to shine, he took it. Maybe he'd also taken Dean's small victories in the process.

The light in the room repulsed him, and with a convulsive movement he forced the curtains shut, nearly tearing them off the rod, before leaning against the dresser, breathing deeply to try to calm the thudding of his panicked heart.

He'd gotten too used to having Dean around.

This was even worse than the first time he'd been without his brother. At least then, he'd had the justification of wanting to live his own life, of wanting to escape Dean's shadow, of wanting _more_. But now he missed all of Dean's messes and the occasional surprising tidiness, he missed the loud music and the beers and the megawatt grin that made even the most beautiful girls swoon. He missed _Dean._

The worst was that no matter what he said and did, Dean always took care of him. When he'd begun having visions, when he'd confessed to dreaming of Jessica's death before it happened, when the telekinesis had jolted through him, brought on probably by the reality of Dean's imminent death, his brother hadn't ever said the words that Sam had been dreading. _Freak. Curse. Mistake. Better off without you._ Whatever Dean had thought, he'd kept it to himself. The words he'd spoken were only to make Sam feel better, infused with Dean's cockiness and the self-assurance that Sam was beginning to see was more a façade than anything else.

All Dean had wanted was to be together. It had taken him three minutes to tear his brother's last dream to shreds.

He didn't deserve to demand that Dean return to his life.


End file.
